


bless the children, give them triumph yet

by nevernevergirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Moving On, Post-Canon, brief semi-graphic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 08:11:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11619507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevernevergirl/pseuds/nevernevergirl
Summary: The first time she sees Harry after the battle, he is standing in the hospital wing covered in soot and ash and blood like everyone else, but somehow he still looks apart from the rest of them. He always has. Somewhere in the distant corners of her mind and heart and soul where she is still able to want things, she wants to hold his hand.Harry and Ginny after the war. Canon-Compliant.





	bless the children, give them triumph yet

_ one;  ending _

 

Ginny has spent a lot of the last year imagining what it would be like to see Harry again, once the war had ended. 

 

It’s absolutely silly, and childish, and of  _ course  _ it wasn’t something she spent a lot of time focusing on, not in the middle of everything.

 

But sometimes-- the whole fucking world felt on  _ fire _ , and she’d close her eyes and try to fall asleep thinking about the weight of his hand in hers again, of seeing him in front of her alive alive  _ alive _ , of the relief that would flood through her. He’d say something stupid and unassuming and she’d laugh and call him an idiot and it would all be  _ over _ .

 

It’s not like that.

 

It’s like-- when she was little, Mum would read fairytales before she went to bed, Babbity Rabbity and all that. They were her favorite because they felt like real magic and whimsy. She’d always clapped at the end when the evil was thwarted, because that’s the important part of a good story, isn’t it? When you’re a kid, you think that. But when you’re older, you get all the cautionary bits: all the things you learn along the way might mean the world is put to rights again, but  _ differently _ . And maybe you knew that all along, but you hadn’t wanted to really think about them before.

 

When Ginny sees Harry again, her brother is dead. So many of her friends are dead. Her mother has killed Bellatrix Lestrange. Nothing makes sense, but she sort of  _ knew _ it would be like this. Because  _ yeah _ there is Harry in front of her: alive alive  _ alive _ and  _ yeah _ she’s relieved, but nothing is okay, this isn’t a fairytale, and it’s all  _ over _ .

 

She has spent the majority of her life in world waiting for war, and its end has left her dizzy-- it’s like how stepping out into sunlight for the first time in days hurts your eyes.

 

The first time she sees Harry after the battle, he is standing in the hospital wing covered in soot and ash and blood like everyone else, but somehow he still looks  _ apart _ from the rest of them. He always has. Somewhere in the distant corners of her mind and heart and soul where she is still able to want things, she wants to hold his hand. She wants to stand by his side. She wants to weep, for him, for herself, for her brothers and her friends. She wants to shut her eyes tightly and pretend she hasn’t seen him or the wreckage or any damn thing.

 

He stands alone, and in her old storybooks, she’d have run to him.

 

She doesn’t have it in her to move. She doesn’t have room to feel anything else.

  
  


_ and: _

 

The first funeral Harry can remember going to was Dumbledore’s. He hadn’t really thought about it much growing up, but he’s not actually sure if he went to his parents’, or if they’d even had a proper one. He could write Aunt Petunia and ask, but he’s not sure he’d get a response. It doesn’t really matter.

 

He has lost count of how many funerals he’s gone to in the past week. 

 

Ron hasn’t really let him out of his sight since it all ended, but Harry hasn’t talked to him much. It’s probably not fair. Hermione says he’s not being fair, but Harry thinks Ron probably doesn’t mind. Ron doesn’t know what to say anymore than Harry does.

 

He goes to Fred’s funeral because he’s been to all of the others, and it’d be pretty crap of him to skip just because he’s not sure he’ll be able to look any of the Weasleys in the eye. But it feels even worse than he’s felt at the other ones so far. 

 

Mrs. Weasley hugs him tightly and cries on his shoulder and he pats her on the back and doesn’t look at her. Mr. Weasley ruffles his hair and tells him in no uncertain terms he’ll be having dinner at the Burrow tonight and ushers him into a seat between Ron and Ginny.

 

It would be really obvious if he tried to nudge his way around to Ron’s other side, which is one of the only reasons why he doesn’t. The other reason is Hermione’s practically glued to Ron’s other side, and Harry doesn’t really trust that she won’t hex him right back to where he started if he tried.

 

He’d seen Ginny at Hogwarts that day, after, and she’d sort of looked at him and nodded, but they hadn’t said anything because anything would have felt monumentally stupid. How he feels right  _ now _ feels monumentally stupid. 

 

She says  _ Hi Harry _ and  _ where have you been staying _ and  _ Dad told you you’re coming for dinner, right _ ? He answers her without really looking at her and he thinks of what he told her last year.

 

It’s been like something out of someone else’s life. 

 

He almost snorts, thinking about it. Standing next to Ginny Weasley at her brother’s funeral, alive when he shouldn’t be, is  _ exactly  _ like something out of his life. 

 

Her hand brushes against his, just the tips of her fingers skimming his knuckles. She gives him a smile that is small and tired. He feels like sinking into the ground.

  
  


_ two; beginning _

 

"Happy birthday."

 

Ginny jumps a little, startled. The garden gnome she’d grabbed by the ankle takes advantage of her distraction and sinks its teeth into the soft flesh between her thumb and pointer finger; she yelps, dropping it to the ground.

 

"Damnit," she swears, shaking her head. 

 

"Shit. Sorry, Gin," Harry murmurs, face contrite as he fumbles for his wand. "Here, I can--"

 

"No, I've got it, thanks," she mumbles, pulling out her own wand and murmuring a quick charm under her breath. "All taken care of, see? I didn't know you were coming over."

 

"Neither did I," he shrugs. She raises her eyebrows; Harry at the Burrow is not unheard of, but Harry at the Burrow unplanned, uncoaxed--well. That was something, these days. "I just… I wanted to… Happy birthday," he repeats.

 

He looks so helpless, and it makes her want to rip at her own hair. Or possibly his robes.

 

"Thanks," she says, wiping the dirt from her hands onto her old Muggle jeans. "You should stay. Mum’s cooking. I told her I didn't want to do anything this year, but you know how she gets."

 

"Well, you're of age now," he says. Ginny shrugs; Harry shifts on his feet, awkwardly. "I. Well. Brought you presents, if you don't mind that."

 

"Well, I might, except I reckon you've got half the gold in England in your vault, so. Why not?" She grins at him, and the effort it takes feels worth it when it gets a laugh out of him.

 

"Here," he murmurs, pulling two sloppily wrapped packages from his robes, shoving them into her hands hastily. 

 

"I get two?"

 

"One's for last year," he explains. "I left before--I mean. I missed your birthday," he says, cheeks red. Ginny bites her lip, and lets herself feel the sadness for a moment before shrugging it off, tearing into the wrapping.

 

"I remembered you got all those pepper imps on the train back from school, my fifth year," he says, watching her. She grins, popping on into her mouth and savoring the spicy-cool burst as she unwraps the second package-- a pointed hat in Harpies' colors. 

 

"I had to ask Ron who you supported," he mumbles. "And then he wanted to know  _ why,  _ and then Hermione was hitting him to stop badgering, so I didn't get to ask whether you already had anything like it--"

 

"I don't," she says, quickly. "It's lovely, Harry, really. Thank you."

 

She settles the hat on her head; it probably looks ridiculous because she’s got Muggle clothing on, but it’s hard to care much with Harry grinning like that, and she thinks, with a delicious awe, that this must be what normal’s like. They'd always been life and death, even in the beginning when they were playing at something else because even then she’d always known who he was and what he’d need to do. 

 

She'd held his hand through too many funerals to count, but she couldn't tell you his favorite color, and he'd had to ask her brother about her Quidditch team. 

 

It was strange and wonderful to be alive to wonder about Harry Potter's favorite color. 

 

"Come on, you," she says, setting her gifts down and waving him over. "You're going to help me degnome the garden. Of age or not, Mum will absolutely have my head if I don’t get this done.

 

_ and _ :

 

Harry hadn’t realized he’d never expected to play Quidditch again.

 

He hadn’t dwelled on the Quidditch aspect of it, but he  _ had  _ sort’ve been willing and ready to die. He’d left Hogwarts last year knowing he wasn’t coming back, knowing he was leaving his life behind in the most literal sense.

 

But he’d really, truly missed Quidditch.

 

He’d tagged along with Ron and Ginny when they’d mentioned taking their brooms over to Seamus’ for a pick-up game, and they’d been greeted by a handful of the DA. He’d almost apparated back to the Burrow on the spot-- they were too much to look at, clean of ash and blood and terror and the too black dress robes of  _ after _ , clean of  _ war  _ and shining with a veil of normalcy he wasn’t quite sure he knew to put on. He thinks he really would have left, if it weren’t for Ginny’s hand guiding his elbow and Neville’s wide grin as he waved them into the back garden.

 

He’s glad. He’s really, stupidly glad for them, because everything feels  _ better _ in the air.

 

They’ve got too many Chasers, so Ginny’s playing Seeker opposite him, and she’s not really letting up-- diving into feints he keeps falling for, edging him straight into the path of Seamus’ bludger.

 

“You’re off your game, Potter,” Lee Jordan calls out gleefully, high-fiving Ginny and soaring past with the Quaffle nestled in his other arm.

 

Harry laughs loudly as Alicia Spinnet nearly knocks Lee off his broom in retaliation, grabbing the quaffle from his fumbling grip. Lee flashes his fingers in a vee cheerfully at the both of them as he rights himself; Harry’s shoulder is throbbing from the bludger, and the sun is too bright, and he feels a lot more awake than he has in weeks.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a glint of gold.

 

He nudges his Firebolt downward, chancing a quick glance at Ginny. She’s seen it too, and she’s closing in, angling down and closing the distance between them.

 

She really is an excellent flyer. He’s considering whether it’s a quality he admires more than it’s currently inconveniencing him when her shoulder collides against his and his hand closes around the Snitch and they’re both tumbling and falling the last few inches down onto dewy-wet grass in a tangle of limbs and broomsticks.

 

Ginny’s fingers link up against his, the Snitch fluttering uselessly, trapped between their palms.

 

“I couldn’t tell who touched it first! Did anyone see?”

 

“Neville, you’re referee, that’s your entire job!”

 

“They were  _ really _ close--”

 

“They’ve got flesh memories for this, don’t they?”

 

“Except it’s not a real snitch, we just enchanted a ball.”

 

Ginny kicks her Cleansweep out from beneath their legs and looks up at him with a familiar blazing look in her eyes.

 

His breath catches, and he tightens his grip on the Snitch-- on Ginny’s hand, pulling her forward and meeting her lips.

 

“Merlin’s saggy balls, have you absolutely got to do that right now?” Ron complains, too loudly. Harry feels certain he’s grinning, though he can’t be arsed to pull away from Ginny and look.

 

He feels so much better than he did in the air. 

  
  


_ also _ :

 

Harry’s got his hand under her robes, resting mid-way up her thigh, and it’s familiar because he’s done it before. She has her hand in his hair, and she trails her fingers down the back of his neck like she’s done before. He’s standing between her legs as she leans against a wall and fits him to her like they’ve done before.

 

He ducks his head down to the crook of her neck, and she shrugs a little to let her sleeve, which was already dangling precariously, fall off her shoulder. He makes a little throaty sound, and then she can feel his warm breath press along her collarbone like a warning prelude to his lips pressing hot and gentle against her skin. 

 

She is gloriously overwhelmed.

 

Maybe it’s another one of those aftershocks of war, and she’ll be forever feeling everything with a sharp-focused edge, or maybe it’s because it’s  _ Harry _ after the war, and even in all those  _ befores _ , she’s always been more intense about him than it’s easy to admit.

 

Ginny knows it’s sort of stupid, but intimacy feels a lot more  _ intimate _ than she remembers. 

 

She wants to be close to him so badly in this moment that she can’t stand it-- like scratching a terrible itch or holding breath underwater for too long. Her hips hitch up, drawing them closer together, and Harry shudders, pulling his head up to meet her eyes. His glasses are crooked and his hair’s even more of a mess than usual. Also, he looks like she feels, and she  _ can’t stand it _ . 

 

She takes the initiative because she feels like she’ll absolutely burst if she doesn’t, and she places her hand over his on her thigh and she slides it up up up. The skin at the join of her hip is sensitive and cool against his fingertips, which feel feverish after their time on her thigh. He presses his forehead against hers, and she nods. She catches his lips kisses him in the middle of it because she wants to, and because she can. His fingers skirt the edges of her underwear as they themselves skirt the edges of familiar and new.

 

“You’re going to have to tell me, Gin,” he murmurs. “What...what to do. What you want.”

 

He flushes a little-- either out of embarrassment or want, Ginny can’t tell, but her chest aches with fondness. She wants him to touch her and to keep touching her and to kiss her and to hold her hand, and she wants days and days and days of  _ this _ , stretched out before them too far to see to the end.

 

She slides her hand back over his, slipping beneath the fabric, guiding him.

 

“Here,” she murmurs, and he nods, like he’s got it now, he can take it from here. He watches her, so carefully and seriously, his face so bloody  _ close _ \--

 

She inhales sharply, tilting her chin back just slightly.

 

“Oh,” she breathes. “Keep doing...yes. That.”

 

She thinks that  _ before _ hasn’t really got anything on  _ now _ .

 

“Good, then?” he asks, as casually as if he’d asked if he’d put the right amount of milk in her tea, his sheepishness gone save for the bit of red still left in his cheeks.

 

“Yes-- _ yes _ ,” she closes her eyes, briefly. “Yes, that’s brilliant, you absolute git.”

 

His grin is stunning.

 

She wants to spend so much time making Harry Potter grin in bed (and against walls and on tables and in broom sheds and any on available surface, really). She’s got so much time to make Harry Potter grin. 

 

This isn’t familiar at all, really, and she’s so glad.

  
  


_ three; middle (or: ever after) _

 

Some days are better than others. 

 

At first, Harry was sorting them out in his head: trying to keep track, trying to quantify the good versus the bad. He’d try to balance a bad article in the  _ Prophet _ against Teddy discovering a new color to change his hair to, and he’d attempt to decide which one won out, to decide whether or not the day felt like a setback. He wanted so badly to have good days, and he couldn’t be sure how much  _ bad  _ could happen before the good didn’t count.

 

“It’s like you’re trying to fill a quota, Harry,” Hermione had told him-- her voice careful and tentative, like she didn’t want to the conversation to move the day firmly into the Bad pile. He’d felt badly about that, so he’d tried his best to listen when she explained that maybe he didn’t need a bunch of good days in a row to consider it all over.

 

“It’s going to be good and bad, isn’t it?” she’d said. “That’s what normal life is like.”

 

It’s taken him awhile, but he reckons she’s right. Hermione always was better at feelings.

 

This is what a normal day looks like: 

 

He’s with Ginny at a small apothecary in wizarding Cardiff; she’s going back to Hogwarts when it starts up again, and her potions kit is in bad need of restocking. He’d attempted Diagon Alley two days ago, but he still gets mobbed sometimes in an overwhelming kind of way, so he’d had to duck into an alley to apparate out before he’d managed to set foot in a store. This, they’d agreed, was a good compromise.

 

They’re babysitting Teddy for the day. There’s a menagerie down the road, and he likes to pet the cats. His little tuft of hair is bright and ginger, and he won’t let Ginny set him down or hand him over, so she’s sorting through beetle eyes one-handed.

 

It’s cloudy out now, but it’s not supposed to rain, and it’ll be good conditions for the Quidditch match Dean wants to get together later. 

 

“Alright, Harry?” Ginny asks, grinning at him brilliantly while the shop clerk rings her up. He walks forward, slipping his hand into hers as he makes a face at Teddy.

 

“Yeah. I’m alright.”


End file.
